Catherine 101
by Omnicat
Summary: It took years for her to stop equating being separated from the circus with certain death. A Catherine character study with the most uninspired title ever. :D


**Title:** Catherine 101

**Author:** Omnicat

**Spoilers & Desirable Foreknowledge:** The _Episode Zero_ manga and at least until episode 13 of the anime, "Catherine's Tears".

**Warnings:** None.

**Summary:** It took years for her to stop equating being separated from the circus with certain death. A Catherine character study with the most uninspired title ever. :D

**Author's Note:** Enjoy!

**II-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-I-oOo-I-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-II**

**Catherine 101**

Catherine Bloom's family had been part of the troupe for generations; even if they were only a few years older than her, everyone would always tell her stories about her family. About her parents' unmatched Tyrolean Flower Act and her Grandmother Erzsébet's rise to trapeze swinging fame despite her childhood injury, about her late uncle Gianni's involvement in the rivalry between their circus and the Grits & Barn troupe, which had since changed into a theatre company.

She remembers being alone, though, in the air raid. Alone in an inferno of fire and inexplicable, pointless rage that robbed her of so many things for so little reason. Her home, a classic horse-drawn carriage her parents had been rightfully proud of - all her things, her toothbrush, the juggling clubs mother and father had given her for her last birthday to cultivate dexterity and a solid grip, the wood-and-string doll that could stand if you kept a finger at its back and two others to its knees and chin - her baby brother Triton, who she remembered only in the sense of having smelly poo and crying her awake at night because he wanted to be fed and a gurgling laugh that wouldn't go away the entire time she played with him. Her parents' arms around her, warm and strong and unfailingly comforting and secure, their smiles and cuddles and stories about the campfire, their mesmerising movements as they practiced - their faces, which faded from her mind until she only remembered them in the angles of photographs.

The troupe spoke of that day in hushed whispers. Their voices were never so low that Catherine couldn't hear them and they did not actively try to hide anything from her, but what they said was alien to her. Her mind refused to tell her anything but scenes lit by flames - the flight, the fall, the fateful explosion. Hawthorne, the manager of the circus, who took her in and raised her as if parents came in sets of three and she'd been his all along, would have told her all about it, but she didn't want to hear. It didn't matter _how_ - all that mattered was that she was there with the troupe now.

She liked to think it was fate.

_This is where I belong,_ she knew. _This is what I'm made of._

Even without Mamma, Pappa and Triton, circus life fit her like a glove, enveloped her like a warm bath, filled her like hot, spiced wine. When the air raid replayed itself in her dreams as a little girl, the comfort of Manager's bed was always within the range of her groping hands. When the unpredictable, lingering ache of loss and anger clenched her chest in the trailer she got when she became a young woman, she had but to step outside to find relief. No matter the hour, someone would always be awake in the camp.

In the troupe, 'family' didn't mean only those you were related to by blood. Nothing could ever replace her parents and little Triton, but as long as she was with the circus, Catherine was never alone, was never lost. And she knew very well what a precious thing that was.

Rationally, she knew that was why it always unsettled her more than the others when people left, and why she got attached to newcomers too fast. But rationality had very little to do with anything at all, let alone war. There was no rationale behind the fact that war had taken away her family when they had done nothing wrong, had supported or denounced no regime, were of no offending nationality, religion or orientation. Once it got started, death and destruction was the only thing it ever accomplished, the reasons be damned.

When someone left on good terms, it was customary to pay a visit to the Manager to make it 'official'. And little orphaned Catherine would always be there to witness it, to cry and beg them to reconsider, no matter how many times Hawthorne reminded her that it wasn't her decision to make.

Didn't they know that war and death were the only things waiting for them out there? That's why the people loved - _needed_ - the circus so much. For all that it was a life of long days of hard physical labour and a restless, financially uncertain lifestyle, the circus was like a magical castle in the sky. It touched down in an empty field or a parking lot and spread joy and laughter, chasing away the raw and grim reality of a world at war, if only for a moment. The lights and glitter and bright colours were Catherine's way of countering the effects of the war - for herself and for others.

It took years for her to stop equating being separated from the circus with certain death.

The young runaways - when the Manager did not turn them down off the bat - were the worst. Normal kids didn't leave their families and discard their familiar lives for an uncertain future among strangers. There was always _something_ wrong with them. Only rationality would convince her that the circus was not the best thing for them and did not hold all the answers, and rationality had never had much sway with her in such matters. They broke her heart by leaving the circus to continue running, and when their parents came to take them back, Hawthorne sometimes had to physically restrain her to keep her from interfering.

When a boy called Trowa Barton showed up one day, it was no different. And yet it was.

_This is where you belong,_ she immediately knew. _This is what you're made of._

He didn't realise it yet himself; his vision was so full of battle and bloodshed that he didn't even seem to notice that the funeral march was not the tune he was dancing to. But Catherine felt it in her blood - it was fate.

When this boy left, she wasn't upset or worried. He would come back. She could feel it. Hawthorne cautioned that she was setting herself up for heartache, but she shook her head stubbornly. Rationally, she knew she was, of course: Trowa was a gundam pilot, a terrorist sought by entire armies. But rationality had nothing to do with this.

After all, he'd found them once before. He would find them again.


End file.
